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Earth  is  crammed  with  heaven,  and  every  bush  aflame  with  God." 

Browning 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

THE   BANCROFT   COMPANY 

1890 


Copy rig-h ted  1890,  by 
THE   BANCROFT  COMPANY 




ISSUED   FROM   THE  PRESS  OF 
THE     BANCROFT    COMPANY 


DEDICATION 


(/>(/)  fiile  Bringing  in  t  fie  s  Heaves  of  an  eventful  fife,, 

£  catcfi  tfie  ecfio  of  a  fong  sifent  voice,  deep  in 
tenderness  and  fervent  in  love.  £  see  a  face,  radiant 
tvitfi  spiritual  Beauty,  reflecting  tfie  image  of  tfie 
fieavenly  in  serenity,  repose  and  rapture. 

7/z/o  tfiis  sacred  presence  £  come,  ^iffi  my 
[ittfe  drift  of  song,  and  lay  it  at  tfie  feet  of  my 
motfier.  *  *  * 

Sorrow  and  joy  nave  tfieir  free  masonry,  and 
6y  its  sacred  signs  and  sum 60 Is  tfie  antfior  fiere&itfi 
clasps  fiands  Wiin  ail  ®fio,  life  fierself,  are  standing 
where  tfie  sfiadotys  nave  fatten,  Waiting  for  tfie 
morning. 


756088 


of  //res*?  /)0^ms  ^ere  first  pu6lished 
in  tfie  J2>eW  ^Or/J  u  plust rated  Christian 
*-(JDeeffy, "  and  ajiertvards  appeared  in  tfie 
"Cfiristian  jfdvocate"  of  tfie  (pacific  Coast,  and 
in  lt((ii[)ords  and  ®or^, "  a  Mondon  pu6lication. 


'S^eatfi  is  Hie  veit  ^fiicfi  ifiey  ^fio  [ive,  caii  fife; 
^e  steep,  and  tfie  vei[ is  lifted." 


CONTENTS 

A  DENIAL                ...  40 

AD  FINEM       ....  48 

BABY  BLUE  EYES                              .  .                .         28 

BY  STILL  WATERS     ....  46 

CHRISTMAS  EVE                ...  .22,  23 

DEDICATION                 ...  3 

EASTER  LILLIES                .                .                .  .                .                .   43,  44 

FORESPLENDORS       ....  45 

FOR  THE  NIGHT  COMETH           ...  .  32,  33 

FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS           .               .  37 

GEORGE  ELLIOT                ....  .19 

GREETING     .....  .           35,  30 

IT  IS  THE  LORD                ....  .18 

MY  ROSE  TREE          ...  41 

ODORS,  WHENCE  COME  THEY  ?  34 

ONLY  THE  BABY      ...  .47 

SAN  BRUNO         .....  .31 

SUTRO  HEIGHTS        ....  11,  12 

THRENODY          .               .               .               .  .                              .     15,  16 

THROUGH  THE  MIST  ....  20 

THE  MOTHER'S  TOUCH                .               .  .                              .     13,  14 

THE  STREET  GAMIN  ....  .17 

TO  MY  BIBLE  CLASS    .                                  .  .                              .21 

TRANSITION                .                .                .                .  .                         .     24, 25 

TWO  SLEEPING  CITIES                 .               .  .               .               .     38,  39 

WHAT  WILL  REMAIN  ?  42 

WHERE  IS  HEAVEN  ?      .               .               .  .                              .      9,  10 

WHENCE  AND  WHITHER    ...  .     29,  30 

WHITE  SULPHUR  SPRINGS  26,  27 


POEMS 


Where   is   Heaven  ? 


HIS  home  of  the  soul,  is  it  shadowed  forth 

In  apocalyptic  dream? 
How  and  when  can  we  reach  the  City  of  God, 

And  bridge  the  dividing  stream? 

Does  it  overarch  the  concave  blue 

Just  beyond  our  mortal  sight  ?  '>     ',   > 

Has  some  one  built  it  with  beautiful  hands, 

And  carved  its  pillars  of  light? 


Oh,  where  are  its  streams,  flowing  cool  and  still, 

Like  the  measure  of  a  psalm? 
And  whence  its  bright  waters,  which  ebb  and  flow, 

In  the  hush  of  endless  calm? 


Will  those  whose  hearts  have  grown  saintly  and  pure 

'Neath  the  crosses  which  they  bore, 
Just  ferry  us  over  with  empty  hands, 

And  hearts,  to  the  further  shore  ? 


What  then?    Will  we  find  a  heaven  prepared 
For  us  who  have  brought  no  sheaves  ? 

In  time  of  the  harvest,  what  of  the  trees 
Bearing  naught — nothing  but  leaves?— 


The  heaven  we  make  as  we  journey  on, 

Our  foretaste  here  below, 
Is  to  do  the  will  of  the  blessed  Christ, 

And  to  build  it  as  we  go. 


POEMS 


To  be  the  cup  of  strength  to  the  weak, 

To  the  fallen  and  the  lost, 
To  calm  the  storm  which  has  well  nigh  engulphed 

Some  soul  that  is  tempest-tossed, 


Is  to  catch  the  breezes  which  play  across 
The  rivers  which  have  their  rise 

In  the  hills  of  God,  and  the  near  behest 
Of  a  promised  paradise.— 


Thrice  blest  is  the  man,  who  thoughtless  of  self, 

Pulls  strong  and  brave  at  the  oar, 
'V'ii:'h 'rescues  a  life  from  floods  of  despair 

While  tearing  it  safe  to  shore. 


The  angels  applaud!  He  builds  as  he  goes 

A  heaven  so  pure  and  sweet, 
That  the  shores  immortal  come  even  here, 

Adown  to  his  very  feet. 


10 


POEMS 

Sutfo 


One  of  the  prize  poems  accepted  by  ADOLPH  SUTRO,  ESQ.,  and  by  him  assigned  a  place  in  his  archives. 

HEN  the  old  prophets  taught  of  God 

Made  their  sublimest  flights, 

Spreading  their  tents  on  table  lauds 

Or  on  the  mountain  heights, 

They  caught  the  visions  which  are  born 

Of  nearness  to  the  sky, 

As  on  the  strong,  eternal  hills 

Which  mountains  typify. 

So  we,  of  California, 

Pledged  to  as  lofty  flights, 

Now  fix  our  point  of  vision  from 

The  domes  of  "  Sutro  Heights." 

The  poetry  of  curves  which  form 

The  base  of  earth  and  sky, 

Rocks  soft  the  cradle  which  responds 

To  Sutro's  lullaby. 


Around  her  galleries  and 
The  rarest  flowers  are  wreathed 
Her  models,  frescoes,  palisades, 
The  ages  have  bequeathed. 
Her  monuments  and  sacred  fanes 
O'erlook  the  sea  and  land, 
Her  tessellated  pavements  ring 
To  echo  her  command. 

The  distant  hills  with  coronal 

And  valleys  sweet  between, 

Touched  by  the  sunset,  gleam  and  glow 

In  gold  and  silver  sheen. 

Her  lengthened  sea  beach,  stretching  like 

A  ribbon  on  the  sand; 

Defines  the  line  which  separates 

Old  ocean  from  the  land. 


POEMS 


Behold  a  vision!  given  of  God 
To  those  who  stand  and  wait! 
Neptune,  with  rod  and  trident,  now 
Throws  wide  the  Golden  Gate— 
We  look  again  from  "  Sutro  Heights  " 
Across  the  sea  and  land, 
And  catch  in  panoramic  view 
The  picturesque  and  grand. 

Mt.  "Tamalpais,"  with  gorge  and  scar 
Leans  close  against  the  sky; 
Mount  of  Transfiguration !  whence 
We  fain  would  mount  and  fly — 
Sutro  by  night!  under  the  stars, 
Raised  to  a  height  sublime, 
Reaches  illimitable  range 
Beyond  the  shores  of  time. 


Oh,  when  the  bas-relief  breaks  up 

And  human  visions  fail, 

We'll  pass  beyond  these  mountain  heights 

To  those  behind  the  veil. 


POEMS 


The  mother's  Touch 

;  For  angels  are  less  tenderwise  than  God  and  mothers." 

—Browning. 


KNOW  not  how  the  passing  years 

Have  made  me  old  to-day, 
Or  when  they  changed  my  sunny  hair 
To  sombre  shades  of  gray; 
How  strange  it  seems 
That  sunset  gleams 
Fall  now  across  mv  wav ! 


Though  many  years  have  flown  since  I, 

By  toys  and  dreams  beguiled, 
Sat  in  the  firelight  of  my  home, 
A  loved  and  loving  child, 
With  flame  more  bright 
And  heart  more  light 
Because  my  mother  smiled, 


As  then  it  thrills  me  now  to  feel, 

Adown  the  waste  of  years, 
The  magic  of  my  mother's  touch 
Which  wiped  my  childhood's  tears! 
Oh,  gentle  hand, 
With  fairy  wand; 
It  scatters  all  my  fears. 


POEMS 


My  griefs  and  cares  are  soothed  to-night 

While  in  her  arms  caressed, 
While  resting  as  of  old  my  head 
Upon  her  faithful  breast. 
The  wandering  dove, 
For  mother-love, 
Flies  to  the  dear  home-nest. 


Her  fingers  toying  with  my  curls, 

Timed  to  some  tender  lay, 
Beguile  the  years  of  half  the  pains 
Which  burden  them  to-day. 
Oh,  tender  touch! 
Never  was  such 
On  sunny  hair  or  gray. 


Blest  memory,  while  unfolding  now 

The  pages  of  the  past, 
Give  me  of  all  thy  valued  store 
The  very  best  thou  hasl. 
Oh,  mother-love, 
O'ershadowiug  dove, 
Thy  watchful  vigils  keep,' 

While  as  a  little  child  again 
I  lay  me  down  to  sleep! 


II 


POEMS 


Threnody 


WO  little  lives  came  into  ours. 

When  all  our  hopes  were  young; 
'Twas  then  we  felt  the  blessedness 

Of  wedded  joys  begun. 
Two  precious  boys,  linked  to  our  hearts, 

By  cords  so  firmly  bound, 
We  knew  not  that  one  circlet  more 

Would  make  the  perfect  round. 

Ah  then ,  when  the  full  harmony 

Was  voiceful  and  complete! 
When  soft  upon  our  ears  there  fell 

The  sound  of  Oracle's  feet, 
We  knew  our  chain  was  perfected; 

Our  little  blue- eyed  girl, 
Clasped  the  third  link  about  our  hearts- 

The  clasping  like  a  pearl.     ,    ' 

We  wondered  if,  half  we  believed 

The  little  winsome  thing, 
Had  come  to  us  from  Paradise 

On  filmy,  gauzy  wing. 
As  bird  or  flower  she  seemed  to  be, 

Like  incense  in  the  air, 
A  presence  redolent  of  sweet 

About  us  everywhere. 

We  knew  not  that  this  bird  of  ours 

Would  falter  on  the  wing, 
Or  that  the  voice  that  thrilled  us  so 

Would  sometime  cease  to  sing; 
We  did  not  think  its  silken  nest, 

Guarded  with  jealous  eyes, 
Would  let  the  little  fledging  slip 

So  soon  into  the  skies; 


POEMS 


Or  that  our  op'ning  violet, 

With  sweet  and  timid  grace, 
Could  feel  the  touch  of  cold  and  storm 

Within  its  sheltered  place. 

Fain  would  we  close  the  door  which  leads 
Into  a  chamber  fair, 

Whose  oft  embellishment  has  been 
Our  daily  tender  care. 

An  unpressed  pillow,  now  as  smooth 
And  spotless  as  before, 

Reflects  the  sunshine  woven  in 
The  carpet  on  the  floor. 

Nature  strikes  not  one  minor  key, 
Because  we  are  so  sad; 

No  sweet-voiced  bird  goes  soaring  by 
On  wings  less  free  and  glad. 

Alas,  our  eyes  are  flooded  oft 
With  tears  we  cannot  dry, 

Because  the  little  feet  we  loved 
Come  no  more  tripping  by. 

Grant  thou,  O  Father,  we  may  know, 
The  blessedness  at  last 

Of  entering  the  shining  gate 
Through  which  her  feet  have  passed; 

And  that  the  lamp  which  she  has  set 
Within  the  window  far, 

May  light  us  through  the  wilderness, 
Our  fixed  and  guiding  star. 


POEMS 


The    Street    Gamin 


HO  is  this  vagrant  child  clogging  the  way, 
Looking  so  pitiful,  where  does  he  stay? 
Who  owns  the  graceless  lad,  with  garments  torn, 
Looking  so  desolate,  gaunt  and  forlorn? 

Where  does  he  stay  when  nights  fold  darkly  in? 
What  shelter  harbors  him  from  want  and  sin? 
Who  waits  to  welcome  him  'round  the  Avarm  hearth, 
Where  loving  voices  blend  in  household  mirth? 


Where  is  his  mother  now,  patient  and  sweet? 
Looking  with  wistful  eyes  out  on  the  street? 
Or  with  her  loving  hands  placing  some  toy 
Just  where  she  knows  'twill  please  her  truant  boy? 

Who  rounds  his  little  bed  with  tender  care? 
Who  holds  his  childish  hands,  lifted  in  prayer? 
Who  soothes  his  boyish  griefs,  wiping  each  tear,, 
Calling  him  treasured  names,  tender  and  dear? 

Nobody's  boy;  alas!  nobody's  child; 

Out  in  the  wilderness  barren  and  wild, 

Out  on  the  city  street  in  rags  and  sin; 

Who'll  save  the  vagrant  boy,  who'll  take  him  in  ? 

God  of  the  fatherless,  gracious  and  kind, 

Thou  seest  these  wandering  ones,  earth-soiled  and  blind ; 

Shepherd  of  Israel,  call  to  thy  fold 

These  bleating,  straying  lambs  out  in  the  cold. 


17 


POEMS 

BROADSTAIRS  VILLA,  ) 

RAMSDEN  R'D,  > 

HALHAM,  S.  W. ) 

LONDON,  Nov.  2ist,  1889. 

Dear  Afudam.—'M.&y  I  ask  your  acceptance  of  a  little  melody  which  I  have  composed  to  accompany 
your  beautiful  lines,  entitled  "It  is  the  Lord,"  which  appeared  in  H-'ord  and  Work  of  last  May  or 
Junef  I  found  the  words  so  sweet  and  suggestive  of  recitative  measure,  that  I  have  ventured  to  give 
utterance  to  my  thought  as  in  the  enclosed,  and  trust  you  will  find  in  it  responsive  chords,  interpreting 
the  verses,  which  have  so  deeply  touched  my  heart. 

With  Christian  regard, 

Yours  in  best  bonds, 

MRS.  E.  PRIESTLY. 


It  is  the  lioird 

John  xxi;  7. 

HEN  toiling  vainly  on  the  restless  tide, 
Yon  cast  your  net  upon  the  "  other  side," 
And  find  your  draught  of  fishes  multiplied, 
"It  is  the  Lord." 

When  oft  from  nights  of  sorrow  you  arise, 
Greeting  the  brightness  of  the  morning  skies, 
Which  flood  you  with  a  new  and  glad  surprise, 
"It  is  the  Lord." 

When  you  have  cast  your  burdens  all  aside, 
When  passion  is  subdued  and  self  denied, 
In  the  o'ercoming,  you  have  testified, 
"  It  is  the  Lord." 

When  morning  dawns  upon  a  night  of  pain, 
And  hope  replumes  your  drooping  wings  again, 
And  sunshine  breaks  the  spell  of  cloud  and  rain, 
"It  is  the  Lord." 

When  winds  have  blown  some  bright-eyed  flower  to  you, 
Charged  with  a  cup  of  fragrance  and  of  dew, 
As  though  the  asking  of  your  heart  it  knew, 
"  It  is  the  Lord." 

When  you  have  bid  the  voice  of  self  be  still, 
And  in  your  earthly  lot  of  good  or  ill, 
From  a  full  heart  declare,  "  Not  as  I  will," 
"  It  is  the  Lord." 

When  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  way, 
You  pass  the  portal  of  the  glad  new  day, 
Awaking  in  His  likeness,  you  will  say, 
"It  is  the  Lord." 


is 


POEMS 


George  Elliot 


ND  thou  hast  joined  "  the  choir  invisible," 
Where  the  "  immortal  dead  live  yet  again," 
Hast  scaled  empyrean  heights  and  vaster  realms, 
And  climbed  to  paths  beyond  the  eagle's  ken. 
Now,  with  unclouded  vision  thou  hast  looked 
Behind  the  veil  of  flesh,  the  spirit's  bars; 
Hast  caught  the  prospect  of  a  wide  expanse, 
Through  trackless  spheres,  and  galaxy  of  stars! 
Ah!  when  thine  inner  vision  first  beheld, 
And  knew  the  fleshly  veil  drawn  full  aside, 
When  what  on  earth  thou  only  dared  to  hope, 
In  its  fruition  blessed  and  satisfied, 
Methinks,  thy  fleet-winged  steeds  did  hasten  back, 
In  chariot  of  fire  to  earth  once  more, 
With  tender  ministry  to  human  souls, 
Pent  in  the  prison  of  this  earthbound  shore. 


POEMS 


Through  the  JVIist 


OU  must  watch  for  me  when  the  tide  comes  in, 

And  the  current  sets  to  shore  ; 
For  my  barque  will  he  such  a  useless  thing 

With  neither  rudder  nor  oar  ; 
If  you  listen  to  catch  what  the  breezes  say 

In  the  voices  of  the  sea, 
You  will  hear  me  singing  about  the  "  Rock," 

That,  was  cleft  in  twain  for  me. 

My  hands  are  too  tired  to  trim  the  sails, 

Or  to  ply  the  needed  oar, 
So  you  will  not  know  when  my  barque  drifts  in, 

Unless  you  wait  by  the  shore. 
If  I  cling  but  to  a  spar  or  plank 

Just  tossing  upon  the  sea, 
You  will  hear  my  voice  in  the  shoreward  trend, 

"  I  will  bide  myself  in  Thee." 

You'll  watch  for  the  words  may  be  faint  and  few 

In  the  sweet  refrain  I  sing, 
But  you'll  know  I'm  safe,  when  you  catch  the  strain. 

To  thy  cross  I  simply  cling. 
1  am  coming  soon  for  the  night  has  waned, 

And  you'll  know  whocalleth  me, 
When  you  hear  in  the  dawning  still  again 

"  I  will  hide  myself  in  Thee." 


POEMS 

To  my  Bible  Class 


HILE  standing  to-day  on  the  border  line 

Where  the  girl  and  woman  meet, 
You  are  culling  buds  of  your  morning  time, 

With  their  brimming  cups  of  sweet. 

The  lavish  behests  of  your  childhood's  day, 
Which  have  brought  so  much  to  you. 

Have  filled  and  o'erfilled  your  now  brimming  cup 
With  the  brightest  drops  of  dew. 

But  the  foam  will  pass  as  the  days  go  on, 

And  the  sun  has  higher  climbed, 
And  you  may  not  catch  as  quick  a  response 

To  the  bells  your  dreams  have  chimed. 

The  dew  will  be  less,  the  cup  not  as  full, 

In  the  coming  noontide  heat— 
Your  paths  will  not  be  as  smooth  and  as  green 

Nor  your  lips  so  full  of  sweet. 

But  you  need  not  falter,  nor  fear  to  trust, 

The  trend  of  the  swelling  wave; 
Your  Pilot  is  near  in  storm  and  in  calm, 

And  your  hearts  are  strong  and  brave. 

Should  the  night  be  dark  and  the  waves  so  high 

That  you  cannot  hoist  a  sail, 
You  can  drift,  for  the  current  knows  the  way, 

Though  your  oar  and  rudder  fail. 

The  Light  of  the  world,  which  is  pledged  to  you, 

Shines  whitliest  in  the  night, 
And  you  cannot  drift,  in  storm  or  calm, 

Away  from  the  Father's  sight. 

Hold  fast  then  the  anchor  who^e  stays  are  cast, 

Far  in  and  behind  the  vail, 
Where  your  homebound  ship  will  by  and  by 

Find  harbor  from  wind  and  gale. 


21 


POEMS 

Christmas  Eve 


I  ARK  fell  the  night  and  cold, 
'Loud  shrieked  the  winds  and  bold, 
Far  from  its  cheerless  fold 
One  lamb  had  strayed. 
On  through  the  dreary  street, 
On  through  the  snow  and  sleet, 
On  moved  the  tender  feet, 
Where  frosts  were  laid. 

Never  was  face  more  sad, 
Never  a  heart  less  glad, 
None  so  unkindly  clad, 

So  cold  and  bare. 
On  from  a  wretched  home, 
Her  weary  feet  had  come 
Fearless  of  death  or  gloom, 

Filled  with  despair. 

Vainly  she  looked  to  find, 
Some  place  more  warm  and  kind 
Than  that  she'd  left  behind, 

So  desolate. 

Houses  and  homes  there  are, 
Fastened  with  bolt  and  bar, 
Where  not  a  want  may  mar, 

Early  or  late. 

Within  the  sealed  walls, 
No  grief  or  sorrow  falls, 
No  voice  for  pity  calls, 

No  accents  wild. 
Ott  through  the  shutters  tight, 
Issue  forth  gleams  of  light, 
Dazzling  the  weary  sight, 

Of  the  wnn  child. 

Now  by  the  fitful  beam, 
Or  some  delusive  dream, 
Hope,  like  a  meteor  gleam, 

Bade  darkness  flee. 
Clasping  with  tiny  hands, 
Frame  work  of  iron  bands, 
Quick  on  her  tiptoe  stands, 

More  light  to  see. 


29 


POEMS 


When  to  her  waiting  sight 
Rose  visions  of  delight, 
Quick  all  the  gloomy  night, 

Vanished  away. 
Curtains  of  crimson  fold, 
Fastened  with  bands  of  gold, 
Pendant  from  windows  old, 

Massive  and  gray. 

Light  from  the  frescoed  walls, 
Through  the  rich  lattice  falls, 
While  through  the  marble  halls, 

Music  breathes  low. 
Tables  all  running  o'er, 
With  their  delicious  store, 
Cups  that  were  full  before, 

Now  OA'erflow. 

Heads  all  untouched  by  care, 

Faces  divinely  fair, 

Old  age  and  youth  are  there — 

Infant  and  sire. 
All  this  delight  I  ween, 
Little  sad  eyes  have  seen, 
Looking  the  bars  between, 

At  the  warm  fire. 

Colder  her  hands  have  grown, 
Swiftly  the  hours  have  flown, 
Now  every  mirthful  tone, 

Dies  on  her  ear. 
Once  more  her  frozen  feet, 
Strive  to  regain  the  street, 
When  hark!  what  accents  sweet 

Banish  her  fear. 

Kind  arms  thy  form  enfold, 
Come  weary  one  and  cold, 
Come  to  the  sheltered  fold, 

Rest  for  thee  there. 
Morning  broke  cold  and  gray, 
Frozen  and  still  she  lay, 
No  form  of  polished  clay 

More  pure  and  fair. 


28 


POEMS 


Transition 


i  F  you  were  walking  in  some  garden  fair 

Or  wandering  over  Howery  meads, 
With  full  permission  to  extract  the  dews, 

And  fill  your  chalice  to  its  utmost,  needs, 
Would  you  select  the  aster  robed  in  state, 

Or  from  the  Passion  vine  extract  the  sweet? 
Chosing  at  will  some  fragrant  garden  Queen, 

Rather  than  cull  the  Daisies  at  your  feet? 

Would  you  not  seek  in  shady  nooks  to  find 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley,  clothed  with  grace, 
Or  wander  in  the  deep'ning  shades  aside 

Seeking  the  Blue  Bells  in  their  hiding  place? 
Just  so  the  Master,  with  a  love  as  kind, 

Searching  the  borders  of  your  bright  parteere, 
Has  culled  your  Lily  from  its  hiding  place, 

And  set  its  rootlets  in  His  garden  fair. 

Will  it  not  comfort  you  sometime  to  know 

That  He  whose  love  so  far  exceedeth  ours, 
Has  chosen  to  expand  your  precious  bud 

In  the  unfolding,  with  immortal  flowers? 
If  you  could  wake  her  as  it  were  from  sleepj 

By  quickened  touch  or  fondest  love  confessed, 
You  would  not  dare  to  stir  a  drifted  leaf, 

For  fear  you  might  disturb  her  quiet  rest. 

You  might  have  held  in  vain  to  her  frail  barque, 

On  wilder  seas,  and  on  a  sweeping  tide, 
Sometime  you  might  have  failed  to  pilot  her, 

'Neath  threat'uing  skies  and  on  a  stream  more  wide. 
The  dainty  couch  which  you  have  spread  with  care 

Bespeaks  the  joy  of  which  you  are  bereft-  - 
The  impressed  pillow's  snowy  drapery 

Needs  now  no  more  the  touch  of  fingers  deft. 


POEMS 


You  would  not  bring  again  the  weary  months 

Which  held  your  darling  to  this  bed  of  pain, 
Just  to  behold  her  lovely  face  once  more, 

You  would  not  bring  the  fevered  pulse  again. 
Her  last  sweet  words  which  you  will  ne'er  forget, 

"  I  am  not  dying,"  were  a  pledge  that  she 
Knew  that  the  rending  of  the  vail  of  flesh, 

Would  but  release  and  set  her  spirit  free. 

She  had  grown  wise  and  learned  in  spirit  lore, 

Full  visioned  and  full  robed  in  white.— 
Like  some  bright  star  at  the  approach  of  day, 

She  paled  and  faded  from  your  mortal  sight. 
But  you  can  linger  yet  a  little  while 

Waiting  and  watching  Mill  the  shadows  flee— 
Knowing  that  all  your  blessedness  must  come 

Through  the  dark  passage  of  Gethsemine. 


POEMS 


White   Sulphur   Springs 

ST.  HELENA,  CAL. 

IKE  the  enchanted  springs  of  old 

Hid  in  their  mountain  rest, 
'So  the  famed  Sulphurs  nestled  lie 

Within  their  rocky  nest, 
Land-locked  by  Nature's  grand  old  walls 

And  battlements  so  high, 
That  oft  their  domes  and  minarets 

Lean  close  against  the  sky. 


The  lofty  hills  reposing  on 

Their  buttresses  so  wide 
Have  drawn  their  graceful  draptry 

Half  timidly  aside, 
And  looking  from  their  dizzy  heights 

Over  the  portal  wide, 
Have  sent  the  cooling,  healing  stream 

Adown  the  mountain  side. 


Fair  Switzerland!  the  land  of  hills, 

Of  mountains  and  of  vales, 
Can  boast  no  purer  liturgies 

Or  more  beguiling  tales 
Than  this  sweet  valley,  closely  locked 

Within  those  massive  walls, 
Where  water  of  perpetual  youth 

In  endless  cadence  falls. 


POEMS 


Not  in  the  "  Happy  Valley  "  of 

The  old  and  classic  time, 
Did  touch  of  artist  or  of  bard 

Find  fairer  theme  for  rhyme 
Than  this  sweet  vale,  so  prodigal 

Of  Nature's  brimming  bowl, 
When  Nectar  and  Ambrosia  spread 

A  feast  for  heart  and  soul. 


Not  Irving's  fair  "  Alhambra  "  here 

Looms  up  in  massive  pride, 
But  one  whose  trellised  windows  'neath 

Their  rustic  porches  hide— 
The  "  Hermitage  "  is  fairly  set 

Against  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  spirit  voices  softly  chant 

The  hymns  of  eventide. 


And  "  Grape  Vine  Cottage,"  quaint  and  low, 

All  redolent  of  sweet 
And  old  time  walls  and  draperies 

With  memories  replete. 
Then  '  Sunnyside,"  with  ample  hall, 

Stands  'neath  the  mountain's  wing, 
Out  of  whose  rocky  side  there  flows 

The  far-famed  Sulphur  Spring. 


27 


POEMS 


Baby  Blue  Eyes 

ABY,  we  marvel  if  your  eyes 

Set  in  their  depths  of  blue, 

Mirror  the  heaven  of  love  we  bear 

Within  our  hearts  for  you. 

Like  lily  bells  o'ercharged  with  dew 

Which  bird  and  insect  sips, 

We  wait  to  catch  the  faintest  word 

From  off  your  baby  lips. 

We  marvel  baby  what  your  thoughts, 
And  whence  your  feet  have  come, 
Where  is  that  wonder  "Baby  Land" 
So  late  your  favored  home? 
The  little  people  which  you  knew 
In  that  delightful  place, 
Were  they  as  dainty  as  our  pet, 
As  sweet  and  full  of  grace? 

Could  they  such  carol  improvise, 

Or  prattle  half  so  gay, 

As  our  own  darling  little  waif 

In  charming  roundelay? 

Your  tiny  hands  and  fiuger  tips 

As  pink  as  coral  shell, 

Hold  to  our  lips  a  draught  as  cool 

As  held  in  lily  bell. 

Your  perfumed  breath  as  full  of  sweets 

As  rose  or  mignonnette, 

Is  like  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers 

With  morning  kisses  wet— 

We  could  not  spare  our  baby  now, 

Our  precious  little  girl, 

For  never  could  we  find  again 

Another  such  a  pearl. 

Like  as  the  tender  lambs  are  borne 
Within  the  shepherd's  arms 
So  Father  lead  our  darling  on 
Beyond  the  reach  of  harms — 
Far  up  the  mountain's  sunny  slopes, 
Led  by  our  guileless  child, 
May  we  in  higher  altitudes 
Grow  pure  and  undefiled. 
28 


POEMS 


CUhenee    and    CUhithei? 


OMEBODY'S  bark  is  let  loose  on  the  tide, 
I  Somebody's  vista  is  opening  wide, 
Some  one  is  making  the  port  of  success, 
Others^have  hoisted  the  flag  of  distress. 
Somebody's  just  girded  up  for  the  strife. 
Others  are  yielding  the  battle  of  life. 
Dews  of  the  morning  brushed  from  the  flowers, 
Somebody's  buds  are  culled  from  the  bowers. 
The  sun  has  gone  down  with  one  before  noon, 
Other  one's  harvest  has  ripened  too  soon. 
Somebody's  baby  hRS  opened  its  eyes, 
Under  the  light  of  roseate  skies. 
Somebody's  morning  is  dawning  to-day, 
Somebody's  feet  have  just  entered  the  fray. 
Somebody's  hands  have  been  stained  which  we  know, 
Once  were  as  pure  and  white  as  the  snow. 
Hearts  have  been  plighted,  hands  have  been  joined , 
Somebody's  love  into  gold  has  been  coined. 
Vows  that  are  meaningless  some  one  has  said, 
Some  one  whose  feet  to  the  altar  are  led  . 
Some  one  has  launched  on  the  mystical  tide, 
Husband  and  wife,  bridegroom  and  bride, 
God  grant  these  voyagers  somewhere  to  find, 
Out  of  the  region  of  storm  and  of  wind, 
Loves  that  are  no  more  the  sport  of  the  hour, 
Buds  that  mature  in  the  fully  robed  flower, 
Where,  all  unstained  in  a  world  unlike  this, 


POEMS 


Hearts  will  unite  in  a  union  of  bliss, 
Somebody's  children  cradled  in  blight, 
Open  their  eyes  in  the  damps  of  the  night; 
Pitiful  places  for  souls  to  be  born, 
Robbed  of  their  birthright,  hopeless,  forlorn. 
Someone  reclines  on  cushions  of  down, 
Bearing  no  cross,  seeking  no  crown; 
Only  a  pallet  of  straw  cradles  one- 
One  more  unfortunate  under  the  sun. 
Many  have  mounted  the  ladder  so  high, 
Round  after  round  till  it  touches  the  sky; 
Just  one  more  step  and  their  feet  will  pass  through 
Out  of  the  old  life  into  the  new. 
Somebody's  feet  have  been  tripped  in  their  flight, 
Out  of  the  shadows  and  darkness  of  night. 
Others  have  entered  the  portals  of  peace, 
Chanting  their  anthems  of  joyful  release. 
God  grant  we  may,  when  the  years  have  grown  old, 
Enter  the  gates  of  the  City  of  Gold. 
That  not  only  some  one,  but  all,  may  come  in, 
Out  of  their  conflicts,  temptations  and  sin. 
Out  of  the  heartaches,  the  losses,  the  strife, 
Into  the  rest  of  the  City  of  Life. 


BO 


POEMS 


San  fii?uno 

Suggested  by  an  ivory  bust  of  San  Bruno,  the  original  of  which  is  in 
the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli  in  Rome.  One  of  the  great 
scholars  of  the  Church  was  wont  to  say:  "  If  it  were  not  against  the  rule  of 
his  order  he  would  speak." 


"  N  vision  of  "  Sir  Launfal,"  prayer 
Was  naught,  of  no  avail, 

"  Until  in  sacrifice  of  self 

He  found  the  "  Holy  Grail." 


When  late  in  Classic  Rome  we  reached 

A  consecrated  shrine, 
And  knelt  in  reverence  before 

A  presence  felt  divine, 
It  seemed  as  though  the  thought  of  God, 

Filled  the  deep  silence  round, 
Voicing  Himself  through  saintly  lips 

In  sanctity  profound, 

Deep  in  the  shrine  San  Bruno  looked 

The  very  soul  of  prayer, 
Sweetly  the  "Benedictus"  soft 

Seemed  ringing  in  the  air. 
Our  Mecca  reached,  the  "  Holy  Grail " 

Was  but  the  flesh  denied— 
The  selfhood  lost  for  aye,  in  God, 

And  Christ,  the  crucified. 


31 


POEMS 


the  flight  Cometh 


H,  can  you  not  be  patient  while  you  may, 

When  you  have  such  a  little  while  to  stay? 

You  may  repress  that  tear  or  rising  sigh 

Just  for  the  joy  that  cometh  by-and-by, 

When  you  will  know  the  how  and  why. 

The  dear  fond  hearts  held  close  within  our  own, 
The  voice  that  greets  us  with  confiding  tone, 

Will  not  be  your  behest  or  mine  alway. 

Oh,  let  us  then  be  loving  while  we  may, 

We  have  so  little  while  to  stay. 

What  if  the  lips  which  have  defended  you 
From  accusation  rude,  unkind,  untrue, 

Should  some  time  hesitate  or  blindly  miss 

The  recognition  of  a  word  or  kiss, 

And  so  should  seem  to  you  to  go  amiss. 

Can  you  misjudge  or  question  all  the  years 
Just  for  the  poor  indulgence  of  your  fears? 
Oh,  these  same  faults  will  some  day  seem  as  naught, 
Only  as  strange,  odd  ways  with  kindness  fraught, 
Which  care  for  you  has  taught. 

The  feet  which  to  your  own  have  timed  their  tread, 
Fain  to  keep  pace  in  paths  where  you  have  led 

Have  tripped  or  may  be  fallen  by  the  way, 

Alas!  they  have  so  little  while  to  stay, 

Forgive  and  help  them  while  you  may. 


POEMS 


Dear,  precious  hands  which  oft  have  smoothed  your 
brow, 

They  w^re  not  once  as  hard  of  touch  as  now; 
But  they  are  still  fond  hands  and  clean,  you  know, 
Though  seeming  many  times  too  fast  or  slow, 
They  are  still  whiter  than  the  snow. 

Dear  heart,  with  impulse  ever  warm  and  true, 
Full  of  fond  thoughts  and  tender  love  for  you, 
What  if  the  flood-tide  of  some  fevered  beat 
Time  not  to  words  which  you  would  deem  most  mete, 
In  benedictions  soft  and  sweet? 

When  the  dear  hearts  are  cold  within  each  breast, 
And  friends  we  love  have  entered  into  rest, 
We  will  not  think  their  feet  were  once  too  slow 
In  the  same  path  where  now  in  tears  and  woe 
Alone  and  silently  we  go. 


POEMS 


Odors,   CUhenee   Come   They? 

'M  thinking  to-day  of  a  white  rosebud 

We  placed  on  our  baby's  breast, 
As  he  lay  in  the  silence  white  and  still, 

Like  a  sleeping  child  at  rest. 
'Twas  only  an  op'ning  bud.  we  had 

Culled  from  the  children's  bower. 
But  before  the  little  casket  was  closed 

It  came  to  a  perfect  flower. 

The  odor  which  made  my  spirit  so  faint 

In  that  time  of  sighs  and  tears, 
Cometh  now,  as  then,  with  a  touch  of  pain 

Adown  through  the  waste  of  years— 
And  one  precious  child  half-grown  to  a  man, 

Weaves  about  me  a  tender  spell, 
With  odor  of  Pinks  and  Mignonettes, 

Which  he  knew  I  loved  so  well. 

One  dear  little  daughter,  with  eyes  as  blue 

As  azure  of  summer  skies, 
Comes  with  the  wild  flowers  weighting  her  hand*, 

And  the  love  light  in  her  eyes. 

Ah,  the  subtle  spell  which  perfumes  entwine 

About  us  where'er  we  go, 
In  the  stir  of  garments,  and  presence  Mveet, 

of  the  angels  whom  we  know. 
Is  like  to  the  breath  of  Him,  who  declared 

When  He  knew  He  could  not  stay, 
"  I  will  send  you  the  Comforter,  because 

For  a  while  I  go  away." 


84 


POEMS 


Greeting 

Sent  by  request  from  Napa,  Cal,  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  of  Fall  River,  Mass. 


OU  question  if  the  tale  be  true, 

If  'tis  not  overtold, 
That  earth's  best  gifts  do  so  enrich 

Our  sunset  land  of  gold? 

Could  touch  of  artiet  improvise 

A  portraiture  for  me, 
I'd  send  in  panoramic  views 

My  answer  o'er  the  sea. 

Like  fairy  pictures  you  would  find 
O'erarched  by  heaven's  dome, 

Scenes  of  enchantment  which  begird 
My  own  sweet  valley  home. 

Nestled  'neath  mountain  ranges,  where 
Birds  of  bright  plumage  fly, 

O'ertopped  by  nature's  minarets 
Our  homes  and  temples  lie. 

Flowers  which  you  rear  with  tender  care 
Need  here  no  training  hand, 

Mosses  and  ferns  and  blossoms  wild 
Carpet  the  fragrant  laud. 

Perennial  streams  and  fountains  cool 
Lodged  in  the  mouutiiin  side, 

Send  down  their  sparkling  healing  streams 
Into  the  valley  wide. 


35 


POEMS 


Old  oaks  magnificent  and  tall 
Broad  canopies  of  shade 

Have  stood  for  centuries,  nor  feared 
The  stroke  of  vandal  blade. 

Whole  palaces  in  air  sweep  by, 
With  windows  all  aglow! 

With  banquets  of  delight  for  those 
Gazing  from  plains  below. 

Oh,  then  when  summer  days  again 
Their  symphonies  prolong. 

Come  to  our  hill  environed  home 
And  learn  its  fabled  song. 


OUR  ANSWER 
FROM  MRS.  MARY  B.  C.  SLADE, 

Editor  "Children's  Hour" 
Fall  River,  Mass. 

Sweet  friend,  so  near,  so  far  away, 
Your  thousand  friends  all  bid  me  say, 
We'll  come,  if  you  will  "  name  the  day. 
We  know  your  heart  has  ample  room, 
But  what  if  all  the  crowd  should  come 
And  overfill  your  valley  home? 
I  know  your  wit  would  build  a  stair 
To  reach  those  "  palaces  in  air," 
And  hold  your  feast  of  welcome  there. 
We'll  go  to  see  you,  soon  or  late: 
Watch  for  us  Mary,  watch  and  wait, 
At  the  Golden— or  the  Pearly  gate. 


POEMS 


the  Gi*ave  of  Keats 


IKE  pilgrims  at  some  wayside  shrine  we  met, 
She  drew  me  to  a  sparkling  fountain  near, 

Holding  a  brimming  cup  for  me  to  drink, 
We  quaffed  together  of  the  water  clear. 

Anon!  she  greeted  me  from  foreign  shores, 

O'er  land  and  sea  her  message  reached  my  home. 

A  few  rare  flowers  from  the  grave  of  Keats, 
She  kindly  culled  for  me  in  classic  Rome. 

And  now  she  greets  me  from  a  foreign  shore 

Along  whose  banks  entwine  the  immortelles, 

And  where  she  proffers  me  again  a^cup 
Filled  from  the  water  of  eternal  wells. 

Sweet  spirit  send  this  oft  repeated  draught 
My  yearning  and  my  fevered  thirst  to  stay. 

That  I  may  stand  white-robed  and  beautiful, 
In  the  near  closing  of  my  earthly  day. 


87 


POEMS 


Tu-to  Sleeping   Cities 


SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  LONE  MOUNTAIN 


OTH  looking  seaward  catch  the  inborne  tide, 
(Both  woo  the  ripples  which  to  landward  glide  ; 
Both  hold  their  sleepers  through  the  silent  night, 
Softly  enwrapped  in  drapery  of  white. 

Both  stretch  their  borders  broader  and  more  broad, 
Both  lie  beneath  the  watchful  eye  of  God  ; 
On  velvet  couches  or  ueath  prison  bars, 
Their  sleepers  lie  under  the  dome  of  stars. 

Yet  one  wakes  not  at  touch  of  early  morn  ; 
It  hath  no  enterprise  of  sunrise  born  ; 
No  touch  of  life  or  tread  of  busy  feet 
Along  the  long  drawn  aisles  and  silent  street. 

Under  the  ivied  archways  hewn  in  stone, 
Beneath  the  marbles  standing  cold  and  lone, 
No  pilgrim  or  sojourner  breaks  the  spell, 
Voicing  the  silence,  save  that ''  all  is  well." 

A  stillness  as  of  hearts  which  no  more  beat, 
Which  no  more  quicken  at  the  sound  of  feet ; 
No  pulsing  life  by  hope  or  duty  led 
Voices  the  city  of  the  sleeping  dead. 

The  silences  which  hold  the  sleepers  here, 
Have  no  remorseful  agonies,  no  dread  or  fear, 
No  sullen  discontent  or  topeless  grief, 
Craving  the  boon  that  death  may  bring  relief. 

Hard  by  these  resting  ones  with  folded  hands, 
The  sleeping  city  of  the  living  stands  : 
With  voices  hushed  and  tired  limbs  laid  down, 
They  reck  no  more  of  crosses  or  of  crown. 


POEMS 


The  babe  pressed  fondly  to  its  mother's  heart, 
Knows  not  the  maelstorm  in  the  city's  mart, 
Nestled  so  softly  in  the  warm  home  nest, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  innocence  most  blest. 

But  one  dear  child  is  missing  from  the  home, 
Whose  feet  have  learned  in  doubtful  paths  to  roam, 
One  darling  boy,  so  late  his  father's  pride 
Has  launched  his  barque  on  the  returnless  tide. 

The  midnight  hour  finds  him  with  ready  feet, 
Roaming  with  careless  tread  the  city's  street; 
He  heeds  not  now  his  mother's  cry  of  pain, 
Calling  him  back  to  love  and  home  again. 

The  darling  of  her  heart,  in  hours  belate, 
Stands  just  a  moment  at  the  fatal  gate; 
The  dazzling  light>nd  revelry  within, 
Tempt  him  to  take  one  look  at  crime  and  sin, 

Great  God!  the  trap  is  sprung;  the  boy  distraught, 
Within  the  ready  snare  is  quickly  caught; 
He  dallied  like  the  moth  about  the  flame, 
Till  drawn  within  a  den  of  sin  and  shame. 

One  more  unfortunate  has  found  the  snare 
Set  for  unwary  feet  with  skillful  care; 
This  mother's  darling,  half  in  love  with  sin, 
With  half  reluctant  step  was  drawn  within. 

Hard  by  the  seething  palpitating  heat, 
The  watchman  makes  his  oft  repeated  beat; 
He  recks  not  that  the  fatal  trap  is  sprung, 
And  one  more  victim  from  the  noose  is  swung. 

His  eyes  familiar  with  the  sick'ning  sight, 
Heed  not  the  horrors  of  the  fatal  night; 
Would  God  our  precious  boys  to  ruin  led 
Were  safe  within  the  city  of  the  dead. 


POEMS 


fl  Denial 


OT  we,  made  one  with  the  Father  through  Christ, 

Do  fade  as  fadeth  the  leaf, 
No  more  than  the  grain  of  the  wheat  is  lost 

In  winnowing  of  the  sheaf. 

No  more  than  the  butterfly,  once  released 

From  its  narrow,  darkened  cell, 
Can  linger  around  the  deserted  walls 

Of  a  hollow,  broken  shell. 

Ah,  who  would  remain  in  the  chrysalis, 

In  the  dawning  of  the  light— 
With  the  soul  set  free  from  the  walls  of  sense, 

Full  poised  for  freedom  and  flight? 

As  the  leaves  fade,  so  this  garment  of  flesh 

Drops  off  when  its  work  is  done, — 
So  the  Old  Year  casts  by  its  faded  robes 

When  the  New  Year  is  begun. 

And  the  soul,  thank  God,  bursts  its  bars  of  flesh, 

With  the  heavens  full  in  sight! 
It  breaks  away  from  the  shadows  of  sense — 

On  the  wings  of  endless  flight! 

So  man,  redeemed,  on  the  pinions  of  faith, 

Goes  forth  in  a  realm  more  broad; 
While  finding  the  gift  of  Eternal  Life, 

Is  the  selfhood  lost  in  God. 


40 


POEMS 


I^ose  Ti?ee 


KOSE  tree  grown  in  my  lovely  parterre 
So  gracefully  leans  on  the  morning  air, 
It  seems  a  vision  of  beauty  there. 

Down  in  the  silences,  hidden  away, 
Under  the  sod,  curtained  from  day, 
The  mother  roots  of  my  rose  tree  stay. 

Eight  grafts  I  gave  to  her  motherly  care, 

Which  shared  with  her  own  the  sunlight  and  air, 

And  grew  into  grace  wondrously  fair! 

Waiting,  a  marvel  of  beauty  beheld  ! 
Oat  of  the  Darkness,  shadow  and  cold 
Cometh  my  buds  of  Ophir  and  Gold, 

The  mother  of  nine  !  what  rapture  to  tell! 
Her  roses  that  bloom  in  their  love-sheltered  dell 
Like  dream  flowers  seem,  or  fair  immortelle. 

Speechless  with  wonder  and  gladness,  I  see 
Hung  from  the  boughs  of  my  lovely  rose  tree, 
The  typical  nine  in  units  of  three! 

In  silence  too  deep  and  grateful  for  speech, 

I  cull  of  my  roses  just  within  reach, 

And  learn  the  lessons  of  wisdom  they  teach. 

The  fond  mother  tree  in  accents  divine, 
Tenderly  greeteth  her  beautiful  nine! 
"Ye  are  the  branches,  I  am  the  vine." 


41 


POEMS 


'CCJhat  OJill  Remain?  >: 

f/ITHIN  his  palace  walls  the  King  lay  dying, 

Soft  lights  and  perfumed  airs  flooded  the  room, 

C-The  far-spent  fevered  threads  of  life  were  flying 
Swift  through  the  closing  loom. 


Just  as  the  shadows  with  the  dawn  were  blending, 

The  King  looked  up  and  beckoned  with  his  hand 

The  faithful  watchers  at  his  couch  attending, 
Who  waited  his  command. 

"  Bear  ye  my  winding  sheet  with  measured  marches, 
It  is  the  only  garment  left  your  King  ; 

Through  busy  streets  and  under  templed  arches, 
Its  narrow  foldings  fling." 

Say,  "it  is  all  now  left  of  crown  and  treasure, 

Of  kingdom,  pageantries,  of  long  sought  gains, 

Of  earthly  good  which  seemed  an  over  measure; 
A  pall  !  all  that  remains." 

When  we  have  tried  all  that  there  is  in  living, 
E'en  to  the  uttermost,  the  very  best, 

What  will  remain  of  all  earth's  vaunted  giving, 
What  but  the  soul's  unrest  ? 


Ah,  in  the  time  of  finished  work  and  resting, 

When  nothing  but  things  real  count  for  gains, 

May,  what  will  bear  the  crucial  work  of  testing, 
Be  to  us,  what  remains. 


POEMS 


Easter  Iiillies 


USPICIOUS  morn!  Adown  the  East 

Thy  gates  of  Light  unfold ! 
'Sunrise  o'ertops  the  mountain  heights 
la  flooding  tides  of  gold. 
Our  waking  eyes 
Glad  with  surprise, 
New  glories  now  behold! 

Oh,  day  of  days!    Oh,  morn  of  morns! 

Crown  of  the  newborn  year, 
The  risen  Christ  has  chased  the  gloom 
From  sorrow's  night  of  fear. 
The  shadows  flee, 
Lifted  by  Thee, 
The  dawning  draweth  near. 

The  voices  of  the  forest  sing 

A  matin  sweet  and  low, 

Their  sacramental  liturgies 

On  wind  harps  come  and  go. 
These  Easter  days 
Of  song  and  praise, 
In  tides  of  worship  flow. 

The  blue-eyed  Gentian  lifteth  up 

Her  modest  smiling  face, 
Where  frosts  of  winter  could  not  hide 
Or  mar  her  spring  time  grace. 
Bid  to  arise 
Her  sweet  blue  eyes, 
Are  beaming  with  surprise. 


4:} 


POEMS 


While  walking  through  the  forest  snows 

You  sometimes  stay  your  feet, 
Lest  an  untimely  tread  may  crush 
Some  hidden  woodland  sweet. 
It  does  not  seem 
That  frosts  which  gleam, 
Were  late  its  winding  sheet. 

Perchance  you  did  not  think  of  this 

Bright  resurrection  morn! 
When  finding  underneath  your  feet 
This  Child  of  beauty  born. 
You  did  not  see 
How  gracefully. 
Her  chr-smal  robes  were  worn. 

Ycur  Easter  lillies  which  have  been 

Unfolding  through  the  snows. 
Herald  in  their  prophetic  type 
The  morn  our  Saviour  rose, 
With  conquest  wide 
The  Crucified 
Has  conquered  all  our  foes. 

Oh,  day  of  days!    Oh,  morn  of  morns! 

Crown  of  the  newborn  year, 
The  risen  Christ  has  chased  the  gloom 
From  sorrow's  night  of  fear. 
The  shadows  fle3 
Lifted  by  Thee, 
The  dawning  draweth  near. 


f 


POEMS 


N  the  deep  stillness  of  the  early  morning, 
When  darkness  flees  and  shadows  pass  away, 

My  soul  awakes  into  the  perfect  dawning, 
In  the  forespleudors  which  around  me  play ! 


Refreshed  and  strengthened  by  a  night  of  resting, 

My  spirit  poises  for  a  nobler  flight, 
Like  as  a  bird  new  fledged  from  out  her  nesting, 

Mounts  ever  skyward  in  the  quicking  light. 


So  the  New  Year  awakened  from  the  sleeping 
Of  the  Old  Year,  now  passed  beyond  our  sight, 

Will  in  the  morning  of  its  precious  reaping, 
Bring  in  the  sheaves  it  gathered  in  the  night. 


The  glad  New  Year  forecast  the  life  immortal, 
Where  Thou,  oh  Father,  bidst  the  shadows  flee! 

When  passing  in  behind  the  shining  portal, 
We  shall  awake  and  find  ourselves  with  Theo. 


45 


POE  MS 


By  Still 


IKE  as  the  hart  with  fevered  lips 

Seeketh  the  shady  nooks, 
Panting  and  leaping  at  the  sound 

Of  flowing  water  brooks. 

So  thou  my  soul  in  searching  through 

The  universe  abroad, 
Art  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life 

And  thirsty  for  thy  God. 

Oft  as  kind  nature  broodeth  o'er 
The  shepherd  with  his  sheep, 

Wooing  them  to  her  fond  embrace 
In  sweet,  refreshing  sleep. 

So  thou,  Oh,  Father  !  givest  to 
Thy  children  waking  dreams 

Of  that  blest  Eden,  where  the  soul 
Quaffs  from  eternal  streams. 

Oft  in  some  pressing  need  of  life 

My  cup  is  over-filled, 
When  on  my  soul  the  cooling  dews 

Of  heaven  are  distilled. 

And  in  the  lull  of  water  brooks 
I  slake  my  thirst  at  length,— 

While  to  some  other  fevered  lips. 
I  hold  my  cup  of  strength. 


1C. 


POEMS 


Only  the  Baby 


HO  says  "  'Tis  only  the  baby  that  died?  " 
Only  she,  the  wee  lamb  of  our  fold- 
Only  her  little  eye-lids  have  closed  on  the  light, 
Only  her  little  hands  have  grown  cold. 

Only  dear  little  Will,  or  Ida,  or  Grace, 
Or  she  who  had  no  name  but  pet- 
How  trifling  a  sorrow,  how  easy  'twill  be 
The  tender  blue  eyes  to  forget. 

How  often  we  hear  it,  how  coldly  it  sounds 
On  the  ear  of  the  mother  who  weeps — 
Only  her  little  nestling,  her  tiniest  one, 
Only  baby,  dear  baby,  that  sleeps. 

Only  baby!  alas,  how  blindly  'tis  said  — 
'Tis  the  bud  that  grows  nearest  the  heart, 
Its  tendrils  twine  closest,  most  lovingly  too, 
So  hard  from  the  life-stem  to  part. 

Know  ye  not,  that  the  lamp  of  our  love  has  gone  out, 
That  music  has  ceased  in  our  home, 
That  the  trilling  so  soft,  so  bewitchingly  sweet, 
Echoes  not,  since  our  birdliug  has  flown? 

Oh,  say  not,  "  'Tis  only  the  baby  that  died," 
There  is  nothing  in  life  half  so  dear— 
'Tis  the  magnet  which  draws  our  soul  to  the  skies, 
And  brings  us  to  heaven  so  near. 


•17 


PO  EMS 


Ad  pinem 


HOUGH  years  now  gone  seem  but  a  waste, 

Oh!  Thou  who  gavest  me 
So  much  of  good  and  blessedness 

To  hold  in  trust  for  Thee, 

Though  what  I  might  have  been,  demands 

A  wherefore  now,  and  why  ? 
And  I  have  nought  to  answer  Thee 

But  a  regretful  sigh ; 

Is  it  too  late,  at  eventide, 

To  do  some  work  for  Thee? 
Some  sacrifice  of  self  to  make? 

Some  captive  to  set  free? 

Too  late  to  quench  some  fevered  thirst, 

Or  tide  of  sin  to  stay? 
To  save  some  soul  distraught  with  fear 

From  peril  and  dismay? 

I  would  not  care  to  enter  heaven, 

Wherever  that  may  be, 
If  far  behind  I  saw  adrift 

Some  helpless  barque  at  sea— 

Sooner  would  I  go  back  and  launch 

A  life-boat  on  the  tide, 
And  bring  the  storm-tossed  safely  in, 

Though  heaven  were  long  denied. 

But  if  'tis  mine  to  enter  there, 

All  I  may  dare  to  ask 
Is  just  to  sit  low  at  Thy  feet 

And  ply  the  humblest  lask. 

If  in  Thy  vast  domain  I  find 

Some  place  allotted  me, 
Oh!  send  me  back  to  earth  again 

On  love's  sweet  ministry. 


48 


'56088 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


